


If a Picture's Worth a Thousand Words.

by girlofthearts



Series: Accidentally hitting an s/o [2]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Accidental, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Drama, F/M, Feels, Italy/Reader - Freeform, Minor Violence, North Italy/Reader - Freeform, Reader-Insert, Slice of Life, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-16
Updated: 2015-12-16
Packaged: 2018-05-06 23:57:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,327
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5435594
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/girlofthearts/pseuds/girlofthearts
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After a long day, you look forward to your warm bed and some attention from your lover. Feliciano has other ideas, which leads to an unexpected end.</p>
            </blockquote>





	If a Picture's Worth a Thousand Words.

The door closed heavily behind you, your weight slumped against the cool wood. Your bag slipped from your grasp, falling with a clamor to the floor. The newly freed hand lifted to massage your aching eyes. The chill of the night lingered in your shoulders.

‘Finally, _finally_ home. Since when do traffic jams happen at eleven? How is there even enough traffic _to_ jam? And fucking Steve screwing up this week’s trade reports before skiving off on vacation. Him and his goddamn ‘Electronics liberated couples’ retreat.’ Fuck that guy, seriously.’ Your miserable gaze fell on the bag. You should pick that up. That canvas tote was poised to spill any second. But that meant you needed to move. 

With a heavy sigh, you did so. Swooping up the bag and depositing it, your jacket and low heels in the hall closet, your keys were dropped in the shallow bowl just beside the door. The slow shuffle of newly-bare feet over carpet followed you into the kitchen. 

Blankly, you took in the sink full of dishes.

‘Why do I never put them in the dishwasher in the first place? I don’t want to even look at them right now,’ You chastised yourself, ‘’and I promised Feli I’d take care of it when I got home. Shit.’ The ache of your abdomen reminded you of your original purpose (other than lamenting the state of the sink). Granola bars and packets of peanut butter could only stave off hunger so long. Unfortunately, as you stared into the fridge full of succulent and neatly packaged leftovers, nothing appealed to your appetite. 

With an audible ‘thunk,’ you rested your forehead against the smooth metal door. 

‘Agh. All this food. Nothing to eat. Stupid, fickle stomach.’ A yawn and a carelessly slammed cupboard later and you were propping yourself up against the sink, getting a glass of water. Your eyes meandered to the envelopes stacked on the far edge of the counter. 

‘Bills,’ You reminded yourself sternly, ‘I _have_ to balance the checkbook by Friday.’ Except you had a quarterly presentation to prepare for, and there was no other time to meet with your team than Thursday and Friday evening. ‘God, I hope Feli stayed within his art budget this month. If I find out he blew our date-night money on brushes again, I’m going to lose my mind.’ Another yawn worked its way passed your lips. It ended in a frustrated huff as you caught a glimpse of the glowing numbers of the clock, perched on the windowsill above the sink. 

“How is it already so late?” You exclaimed. Half-past five was coming far too soon, a few measly hours away. Suddenly, the sensation of cold water jolted your distracted mind. A yelp later saw you uselessly wringing your soaked shirt sleeves. 

‘Freaking typical.’

“Bella?” The tenor of your lover drifted from the hall. He half-swung around the doorframe, auburn hair following the motion. Curious eyes (as always) searched for your form; his face brightened.

Bemusedly, he asked, “What are you doing in the dark?” Casually flipping the light switch as he strode toward you, arms open. You winced at the sudden influx of light.

“Hello beautiful.” He crooned, cuddling you to him. You smiled wearily against his collarbone.  You replied, “Hey gorgeous,” was muffled by the soft cotton of his shirt. 

The warmth of the long embrace encouraged your eyes to droop, nearly drifting to sleep in his arms. He smelled like meat sauce, red wine and paint thinner. 

“Have you been painting today?” You asked drowsily, nuzzling into his neck. He pulled away with a jolt, drawing a whine of protest from your lips. Lovely hazel eyes gleamed with excitement as he grinned at you. 

“Sí! Actually, I have something to show you.” 

You peered up at him blearily, “Not tonight, okay? I need some sleep.”

“Bella,” he whined, a pout forming on the sweet curve of his lip, ‘Please? It will only take a minute.” 

You felt your body swaying gently, your equilibrium shot to pieces from the need for sleep. Your

hand fisted in the fabric of his shirt for stability. “Feli, seriously, I need to go to bed. Can’t it wait?” 

His response was a lopsided smile, as he firmly took your wrist and pulled you along. You stumbled, following unwillingly. Your frustrated exhaustion took a sharp nosedive into irrational anger. 

‘For the love of all that is holy, I have been up for nineteen fucking hours!’

“Feli!” You snapped, yanking against his grip. He ignored you as he pulled you into the hall, aiming for the door of his home studio. The hall’s carpet gave you no leverage. 

You ground your teeth. 

As he pulled you across the threshold, he swung you around; circling you to close the door. You were occasionally known to simply walk off when uninterested, and he clearly didn’t want you making a dash for your warm… comfortable… bed, damn it. As he rummaged on the drying rack tucked into the corner, you planted your fist on your hip, blood boiling.  

‘What is _up_ with this high-handed bullshit? Is a little goddamn rest too much to ask for?!’

As you heard him approach, your nerves were snapping and sparking with tension. You whirled to give him a piece of your mind, hand extended in a wild gesture of frustration. 

...

Your hand flew to your stinging cheek; breath leaving your lungs in a strangled gasp. 

His hand hovered mid-air, arm wound back as if ready to let another blow fly.

You flinched away from him with your whole body. 

Another noiseless gasp as you felt the wetness trickle down your neck, dripping from your chin. The wild look in his eyes forced yours down and away, your arms wrapping around your taut frame. Your attention was seized by the canvas laying askew at your feet. Automatically, you reached down to pick to up, unable to leave it lying face-down on the floor. 

To see the sweet portrait, guilt clutched your insides. 

‘But that didn’t mean he-.’ You couldn’t finish the thought. Impossible. Incapable.

 You flipped the painting over to check the frame. Feli was generally excellent at stretching canvas, but it was known to happen that a nail might pull oddly at the fabric after being dropped; the frame might twist or splinter. 

It seemed fine though. 

You turned to replace it on the open drying rack. It was lucky the paint didn’t scrape when it hit the floor. Your hand clutched at the wire frame of the piece, fingers winding into the metal. 

Grounded by your grip, you careened your head to find Feli standing in the same spot you left him. His hand had begun to slowly drop.  Your cheek throbbed. 

His eyes met yours. 

He swayed once in place, then dropped to his knees with an audible ‘thud.’

“Feli!” Your panic immediately brought you to his side. But as you reached for his quaking shoulder, your heart gave a painful squeeze. Your hand hovered above his shirt. Feli had turned away from you, staring down at his hands as if he’d never seen them before in his life. 

A choked, gasping sob and he collapsed in on himself. Doubled over in pain. 

You gritted your teeth at your own cowardice. You wanted to comfort him, but what could you possibly say? You pulled him against you in an embrace, fingers lacing behind his back. His larger body clung to yours with the ease of long intimacy, biting his own fist as he choked on tears. 

“Feli,” Your voice was soft, pained, “Sweetheart.”  He sobbed harder, abandoning all pretense and laying his head against your chest. The heaves shook both of you as his tears soaked your shirt. 

“I- I didn’t-” He choked out, more than half-hysterical. You pressed your wet face against his head.

“I know you didn’t.” You said, but the weight sat low and heavy in your stomach. 

 


End file.
